Marathon
by Zaedah
Summary: She strips him down and reclaims all that is hers with the gentleness of a drunken mosh pit. -On Hiatus-
1. Chapter 1

**Marathon**

_So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee…_

_But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me._

_Shakespeare's Sonnet 143_

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As a child, Calvin Malloy's Kool-Aid must have been spiked with liquid rubber.

Somewhere between lung-protesting breaths Agent DiNozzo considers the possibility that the Navy is recruiting sub-humans as part of some secret plan to punish him. The chase has encompassed twelve city blocks, two sidewalk sales and a near collision with a bike messenger. But the alley presents a barrier that can only aid the gasping federal agent, a six foot retaining wall dividing the neighborhood from an industrial lot. And Tony applauds his good fortune right up until Malloy clears it in a single bound.

The problem with jumping a cement wall is that, lacking x-ray vision as Tony does, what waits on the other side is something of a mystery. Except that he's sure it will be mud. Mostly because he's wearing a new suit.

If luck comes from catalogues, he's not on the mailing list.

The wall and its ominous crown of rough hewn stones stands between the pursuer and the jackrabbit who leapt over the damned thing like he'd sprouted pogo-stick legs. Swearing in the tradition of the sailors he serves, DiNozzo sucks in an overheated breath and hurdles the wall with relative ease. The landing needs work. Italian shoes complain viciously about their assignment, unwilling to grip the rightly predicted mud.

He's no longer on speaking terms with his knees.

The man, most recently a lance corporal and currently a meth-fueled marathoner, isn't facing court martial without a flight. The rest of the team spared themselves this organ-burning adventure by being smart enough to play dumb. Processing scenes, picking up trace and other crime-fighting activities left the senior agent the task of hauling in the bad guy for questioning. Alone, since the boss decided to practice his swing by teeing off against the brass.

The abandoned building beyond the wall, windowless and desperately out of code, welcomes the junkie into its cobwebbed embrace moments before Tony arrives. The disturbed dust acts as a trail marker and with gun drawn, the agent casts a nervous glance to the great holes in the roof. A shot fired could bring the place down and death by rubble will bring no decent eulogy. He intends to pass from this life in a manner that ensures a climactic final scene to the movie they'll make of his life.

Maybe they should leave out the transvestite.

Gentle thudding overhead gives away the addled man's position on the second level past the skeletal stairs. Drugs have lent Malloy false confidence while clogging his hearing; the sneaking-on-tiptoe maneuver is best performed on a floor not littered with large tin shavings. Before DiNozzo can execute his interpretation of sneaking, the rotted timber decides against supporting crime and lets the man fall back to earth. A punishing collapse is punctuated by a drill press somersaulting down the new hole after him. Tony's humanitarian effort begins with pulling Malloy away from the impending kiss of heavy machinery and ends with planting the man's face against the nearest solid surface.

His dry cleaning bill could finance a terrorist cell.

The Duke never had days like this. Running men stopped at the sound of his impressive drawl, knees knocking and pants suspiciously moist. Dragging the battered wreck of Navy property back through twelve blocks at an angry pace and shoving him in the backseat, DiNozzo looks down at his trousers and ponders how mud could splash that high. In the middle of a drought.

And suddenly he's craving Kool-Aid.

**…………**

It's hard to be hated by so many gods at once.

Freshly changed, DiNozzo waits in the observation room as Gibbs makes the lance corporal sweat. More. In the course of falling off his high, Malloy has taken on the appearance of a porcelain water feature. Perspiration races itself down a face pale enough to make one believe in vampires. The downtown chase did the man no special favor. For his part, Tony's calves are spitting damnation for the prolonged standing. Gibbs is pacing the small room, making a silent orbit around the shaking man and though the play normally entertains, Tony finds himself clamping down on vicious annoyance.

Instead of the marathon sex he ordered, Tony must settle for cooling coffee and a stiff back. Of course, the government has yet to recognize the value of an on-call masseuse and when he laces his fingers behind his head to stretch his muscles, the resulting pops would make Orville Redenbacher proud.

The next scene deserves popcorn.

Malloy, whose detox vibrations have reached seizure levels, quite simply falls over, his head bouncing admirably off the floor. As he bends to check for a pulse, the boss turns to the mirror and merely shrugs but Tony can't get the wince to retreat from his face. A moment later, the man remains a drooling mass and Ducky's attentions are far kinder than any Malloy has seen today. A swoon produced by unhealthy living, the coroner explains and the story that follows involves hollow chocolate bunnies on the western front.

Returning to the bullpen, DiNozzo is accosted by the scent of a woman trying too hard to be noticed for all the wrong reasons. The lance corporal's girlfriend, recently enhanced and pointing the expensive additions in Tony's direction. He's a fan of the ample handful but prefers a woman naturally supplied. There's a sense that he has disappointed the team by stifling any commentary as her breasts lead the rest of her to Vance's office. He's too busy sinking into his chair, the standard office model never so comfortable.

Adrift until he catches the heave of Ziva's natural supply.

She's doing it purposely, evil vixen that she is. And while most of his body is content to play dead, other parts are heading toward resurrection. He needs to get out of here before his leer becomes permanently affixed and she shoves the electric pencil sharpener where it clearly does not belong. He gently reminds his overactive libido that a shamefully limber attorney is scheduled for tonight and Shayne promises to be worth the cost of the requisite dinner. He's about to venture down to the lab when…

Did he break a funhouse worth of mirrors?

These are the ingredients for a breakdown: First he oversleeps, then he's dragged through half of D.C. by a spring-loaded junkie, braves a demolition-site-in-waiting, stands through a wordless interrogation and now tonight's dessert cancels. There's a definition for this; cursed. Do Israelis practice voodoo?

**…………**

By the time he leaves the office, Agent DiNozzo downshifts into the casual charmer and secures the company of a female pilot he'd met three cases ago. A gum chewer, he recalls and has taken the habit as a sign of youthful enthusiasm. And in a swift reversal of fortune, the leggy blond wants to skip dinner entirely, evidence that at least one god has granted him pity.

It's the one who giveth and taketh away.

Youthful, yes. Enthusiastic, yes. But the combination fails to translate into stamina and as she lays panting in singular bliss, he's not sure he was truly present during the making of her orgasm. And therefore he considers falling back into his belligerent persona to dispatch her because dissatisfaction makes for a moody and mouthy Italian. He's cold-showered and draining his third beer when she wakes and leaves, too pleased to be offended by his silence.

An hour later, the knock on his door stirs him from the murky trance born of insomnia and alcohol. The vision rendered in miniature through his peephole tells him that he drank too much again. Because beyond the triple dead-bolted door a ninja waits, holding a six-pack and his dry cleaning. Her smile has nothing to do with work. He's been running all day. All year. All his life. But once she's safely stowed in his bed, he can't quite remember why he thought his own personal marathon equaled freedom. The urge to indulge in sightseeing quarrels with the instinct for self-protection but it's an argument she's winning.

Impulse control be damned… he's finally on the mailing list.

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_**A million thanks to new and returning readers. Please inform if this departure pleased or dissatisfied...**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Marathon **

Second Race**  
**

_Thus can my love excuse the slow offense __  
__Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed._

_Shakespeare Sonnet 51_

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Some days he'd kill to wake up dead.

The headache, which pounds with the fury of dueling brass bands, promises to be the kindest part of the day. There's little incentive to open his eyes. To view the world beckoning beyond the window is to accept everything that is destined to go wrong once Tony DiNozzo steps blindly into it. Besides, moving takes energy and that precious commodity is on backorder. Yet even through the steep haze of a hangover he can sense that something is amiss and the investigator instinct shoves past frat boy eyelids to grab a glance. He's instantly sorry.

Blinking through the painful rays of an evil sun pouring across his face, Tony takes in the empty space to his right and notes the mildly crumpled sheets, the telltale indent. Someone had been there. But the identity remains fuzzy, owing to the early hour and what had likely amounted to an unsafe quantity of alcohol.

He's never denied being an emotional drinker.

Waking to the evidence of an accidental sleepover is hardly abnormal; one night stands a standard ploy the shrinks would call habitual-loneliness-defeated-by-faceless-sex. Vices are, after all, what separates man from pond sludge. Barely. With an effort hampered by a lack of coffee, Tony can't summon a single feature of last night's preoccupation. Judging by the faint dip she'd made in the mattress, it was clear she'd been narrow, bordering on slight. But the state of the sheets, basking now in obnoxious yellow streaks and carrying no particular scent, indicates a decidedly cautious, almost tidy romp. No face, no markings, no trace. The light stiffness in very specific muscles declares that he'd had some form of sex, though it apparently hadn't been dramatic because the woman made absolutely no impression.

Except for her theft of the hot water.

A frosty shower drags him ungratefully toward full consciousness, bringing with it an immediate dislike of whoever dared to rob him of warmth. A cursory inspection reveals no bite marks or bruising. God, he hates dainty sex. After a quick tousle of gelled hair and a fresh suit, he sails into a morning already in progress, only to be halted by the Mother of all Traffic Jams. According to the barely perceptible AM station, someone had tried to imitate the Jetsons but against all unreasonable expectations, the car didn't fly. Tony's shoulder angel assures him that this delay is a gift meant to give him time to think. Angels should be throttled and presents like this deserve re-gifting. And Gibbs will grant little grace to his forever-tardy senior agent.

The throbbing at Tony's temples is in no way aided by the attempt to retrace the events of his evening. It comes in shredded pieces as he swings from lane to lane in search of forward progress. A cancellation. A substitution. A session on his counter. He sees a knot of blond hair tangled in his hand just before the jumbled chorus of honking steals him back from the teetering ledge of recollection and makes his fingers itch. The rush hour population should fear a federal agent with a loaded weapon and short-term memory loss.

Mornings should be staggered by patience level.

The stop and go of a crowd starting their day all at the same time becomes a reenactment of Office Space's opening scene. A swerve to the left lane ensures that the line freezes. A scoot back to center and the lanes on either side move without him. The right lane is a notorious haven for senior citizens who forget the location of their gas pedal and the inevitable broken-down, rear-ended or over-heated. Yet this line will move with NASCAR speed the moment he abandons it. He's in a marathon with equally eager runners to gain an extra inch of asphalt and they'll all fight to the detriment of their transmissions to get ahead.

It's like chasing down luck.

The gum-gnawing pilot. Somewhere between nodding off behind the wheel and nearly trading paint with a tractor trailer, Tony's mind finally supplies the woman and a pretty face swims into his inner vision. Every good agent needs a contingency plan and she'd been it. Only, as back-up plans go, this one had been disappointing; all tease, no endurance. The number of empty bottles in his kitchen attests to his solution to the problem of weak women, though the source of the Nesher Malt still eludes him.

Like a Mentos in Coke, traffic shoots past the bottleneck wrought by flipped cars and more ambulances than a single hospital could possibly store. There's a taste of freedom quickly snuffed by waiting patrol cars and because this morning is already a plague among men, Tony isn't spared from the snag-and-grab operation. As a former beat cop, he understands quotas better than most. Fortunately his badge still holds just enough shine to impress someone. But misfortune usually follows close behind as he realizes too late that a ticket might have acted as a pass for a gruff hall monitor. Not that it will matter much, the tiny paper a thin shield against the wooden ruler he's heading for.

He didn't start the day dead, but he might finish that way.

**…………**

It wasn't just a blond.

Oh, he definitely spent a chunk of time lodged inside a blond at some point in the night, but something in the movement of the brunette in the bullpen is violently sticking a pushpin through an image that defies clarity. Ziva's back is turned, the loose fall of chocolate curls catching his attention and some minor thread of his memory. And a cold sweat flushes across his skin. However promiscuous Tony may be, he's always been careful. While still contending with the first woman, he must now grasp the reality of a second. He berates himself through the trace collection, the interrogation and the paperwork.

What the hell did he do?

Rummaging through the dense cobwebs, he takes a mental tour of his room to recall if there had been any condom wrappers in sight. Nothing. Had there been any used latex in the trash? Nope. Even while drowning in the familiar torrent of liquor, DiNozzo knows better than to enter a foreign battlefield without protection. His boys are soldiers screaming for armor but he's been a neglectful general.

An uninvited shiver runs the length of his spine, a version of spidey-sense particular to the guilty. Looking up, he finds an amused Ziva watching him, the grin smug enough to warrant forceful removal. Only McGee's oblivious presence keeps Tony from snapping at her, as there's little worse than having to apologize with an audience. With her report complete, the Israeli gives into apparent boredom and begins questioning his evening. The tone is innocent, a bothersome skill. It's hardly her business that he can't remember and he pulls the pee-break card to dodge further inquiry. That they both end up in the men's room shouldn't surprise him. But her hair tangled in his fist does.

She's last night's brunette.

Noting his rising panic, she tacks on a sinister smile and asks how he liked the malt she'd brought. It's an Israeli specialty, non-alcoholic and thoroughly not to blame for his current predicament. Which now includes her questing hand. With an indecent squeeze, she assures him that they did nothing that would earn them lashes from Gibbs. That will only change, she says, if he stops running long enough for her to catch him. He is ordered to be sober when she and a case of Nesher arrive tonight. Given the price of the last bender, he's prepared to swear off alcohol and blonds for the balance of eternity.

On the way home, he buys condoms.

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**I thought this one needed continuing. If you agree/disagree, feel free to voice it!**


	3. Chapter 3

_The kind response to this former one-shot has been so lovely that I cannot help but continue. The rating has gone up for slightly more adult content. More to come..._

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**Marathon 3**

Third sprint**  
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As easy might I from myself depart_  
_As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.

_Shakespeare's Sonnet 109_

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Alexander Graham Bell never had sex.

With the scientific method holstered at his side, Tony detects the evidence to his hypothesis as supplied by the woman driving the government-issue vehicle in a manner that suggests there's a billion dollars, a ticking bomb and a unicorn in the backseat.

_Exhibit A:_ Any inventor who dared to create such an invasive device obviously never experienced it executing its intended function while said inventor was trying to perform a significantly more complicated operation. Evidently, Bell never used the newfangled thing to call a hooker.

_Exhibit B:_ Any inventor who dared to allow their creation to permeate a culture so thoroughly that even the technologically defiant can wield it as a weapon against bliss should have been granted immortality along with the patent. So that Tony could now kill him.

He's a fugitive on the run from staggeringly bad timing.

Thirty four minutes and two arguments ago, Tony had been on the cusp of forgetting his own name while gasping hers. Too deeply buried in… his task, neither he nor his partner cared to answer the pair of phones ringing in impatient stereo. Except that Gibbs has somehow learned to text authoritatively. And repetitively. It had become impossible to ignore, what with the likelihood that they were being surrounded by commandos and all. The anticipation of an armed escort made concentrating on the complicated operation rather difficult.

And thus, a hatred for late 19th century pricks was born.

Ziva's fingers are turning white on the steering wheel, an unfortunate mimicry of how they'd so recently curled around him. DiNozzo thinks perhaps he should say something but his mind is still lodged somewhere that produces very limited sentences. Selection of an appropriate phrase that will both commiserate and coddle is a bit like deciding between poison and hanging. Both could kill him. As if sensing his intention to placate, Ziva donates her opinion in the form of a two second death glare, which only sinks his mood further.

The asphalt ripples beneath them, his body acutely aware of every dip and bump in its heightened state of disgruntled arousal and he's approaching the point where relief can only be provided through indecency. Unfulfilled is no way to start a new case. The newly deceased had better get carded at the pearly gates for the trouble she's putting him through.

Even the dead plot against him.

His memory is another schemer, still withholding valuable recollection of their recent night together. While Ziva assures him that nothing outside the boundary of protocol occurred, he's fairly certain that his history with alcohol is clear in the matter of his hands. They wander. And he can't remember what trail they may have blazed, marking them as traitors as well. Why he can summon the details of his time-waster with the bubbly blonde pilot is quite beyond him.

His self-targeted frustration must have sucked out the oxygen in the car because Ziva's thin fingers have parted company with the part of her brain that undoubtedly blames him for tonight's interruption. His phone had been set to a particularly obnoxious ring, after all. The frisky digits stretch out to refresh his disappointed mind on all that they can't do at a crime scene, the message rendered inconsequential once he stops thinking with that head.

The Amish have it right.

His cell is ringing again, a testament to all that's wrong with advanced societies, and while he tries to maintain a disinterested voice, McGee is bound to notice Tony's quickening breath. Ziva seems to be apologizing for something and it doesn't feel a bit like weakness. But when his zipper goes south, everything else goes to hell.

Distracted driving equals another damage report.

He'll take the hit for this one because while they wait for the wrecker, her lips have gone to appealing lengths to balm his frayed nerves. When the 'red-throat' arrives, flannel flapping like a cape in the breeze, Tony is too relaxed to care that Ziva has decked the man for propositioning her. She spits out an impressive rant against sloppy men with soggy tobacco but all Tony can see are the lips currently set in the pout of damnation. There's a shining remnant of him there and the male pride that surges comes equipped with a vow to repay her kindness.

Gibbs is not amused.

Especially once he notes the forward position of the driver's seat that, had DiNozzo been piloting the crumpled vehicle as claimed, would have caused a castration-by-steering-wheel. It's an unforgivable oversight by two seasoned investigators who should be pros at staging a scene and one that ensures a future interrogation. Ziva shrugs, sharing the blame with an invisible deer and leaves out any mention of impromptu sexual favors.

Stuck with McGee, Tony is smiling more than is recommended when seeking to intimidate a possible suspect. There's nothing in the federal handbook that refutes the technique but when the man caves in the face of DiNozzo's chipper questioning, no one is more surprised than Tony. Knowing that he's trapped in a sedan with the probie and a confessed killer, a viciously cunning woman torments Tony from across a crackling phone line with the manner in which she expects repayment for her services. No detail is spared.

Alexander Graham Bell is thus nominated for sainthood.

**…………**

He's too angry to have sex.

To be sure, this is an unusual predicament for a man who can perform while drowning in a vat of kindergarten paste. What could be taken as a sign of maturity is, in fact, an avoidance of physical contact because if his hands drift too close to her throat, he might find it necessary to choke her.

It's not exactly what Ziva wants to hear on a night when she's opted for sparse attire. The case wrapped an hour ago and Tony had sprinted home like the banshees of hell wanted his entrails for decorative wallpaper. Now he paces before a woman who cannot possibly express more plainly her shock at his fury. Her sputtering sentence structure ranges from the grammatically incorrect to the morally offensive.

Never invoke the specter of a man's mother.

A quick temper is the bruising gift of his combined genetics but Ziva's DNA code apparently includes a bullheaded strand easily accessed by six year olds and dementia patients. That the tiny powerhouse stalks into danger as though she owned an invisible Kevlar field and the healing factor of a superhero is made infinitely worse by the lack of prior notice to her partner.

She should come with a manual.

If Tony possessed the operating instructions, he'd scour the contents to learn which lever controlled the daredevil function and then switch it off. Although the directions would probably be written in Arabic and require a password, retinal scan and a sperm deposit. He wants to tell her that his wrath is worry-based but softening the impact will get him nowhere with this woman.

The stain of her displeasure won't come out in the wash. Ziva isn't interested in having her faults listed with bullet points and highlighters but once Tony's mouth shifts into gear, only an act of God can apply the brakes. Which is why he can't stop himself from saying such reprehensible things as 'if I ever lost you.'

Being sappy drivel makes it no less true.

And no less effective. The forbearance she instantly shows him would be patronizing except he needs the reassurance so very badly. Her promise to indulge his new and vexing need for her workplace caution accompanies the most frighteningly tender kisses he's ever received and Tony thinks he's more than a little in love right now.

What separates humans from hummus is make up sex.


	4. Chapter 4

_This installment is a bit of a departure from previous chapters, yet still in the vein of Tony's perpetually bad luck that I've been exploring. It just wanted to be written this way. Please enjoy and drop me a line if this does/doesn't work for you._

_For Brightblue, JAGNikjen, , ME and Leah. Your continued and kind patronage has not been overlooked._

* * *

**Marathon 4**

Fourth course

Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,  
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

_Shakespeare's Sonnet 66_

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The Oscar is heavier than it looks.

Bestowed on those whose acting prowess is deserving of a shiny statuette that doubles for a blunt implement, the award would be less coveted if anyone understood the price of earning one. The screen makes the transition look seamless; fall into character for the sake of art and slip back into reality in time for dinner. The viewer doesn't see the painful morphing, like a werewolf shredding through its own humanity to release the beast from the prison of man. But the tattered clothes, when shrugged back on, can't cover the aftermath.

There's little glamour for a government actor.

Tony dusts off the metaphoric emblem on his internal mantle because he's received the summons to appear onstage, Vance serving as The Academy that DiNozzo is supposed to thank for the honor. Instead, he's shaking with the effort to keeping newly formed fists from cracking the man's skull. Pummeling the director would only wrinkle Tony's expensive suit.

The armor of Ermenegildo Zegn was selected this morning after he'd woken in breathless panic. Too vague to explain to the questioning woman in his arms, tiny shards of the dream's alleged warning carried him through a cold pizza breakfast and three hours of closed case paperwork. Paper cuts included. It's tedium that is interrupted by the order to change his skin.

This calls for a raise.

Because he's going to need more designer shielding, partially due to the role they've assigned him and mostly to protect his more tender aspects from Ziva. Her aim is legendary and her mercy is non-existent. Fear for the safety of his reproductive organs clashes with the stare-down from Gibbs. He notices that the brass never asks if he wants to be swallowed by the personas in his head, rather they stand with hands clasped behind their backs expecting him to wordlessly agree.

To be their whore.

And it infuriates him, this presumption that his body and time are theirs for the directing. And God knows there's usually a film crew documenting every humiliating moment for use later in a court of law. Stand here, say this, move that and despite the vinegar coating his tongue, Tony nods consent for the simple fact that he has no perceivable choice. No matter how deep he buries the skill, his superiors always manage to dig it up and parade it out at their leisure. It's why he's relocated so many times and wisdom tells him to line up another moving company.

He'll have to lie to her.

It should be harder, Tony thinks, to unfurl the long black cloth of an untruth. As he tries to hide behind the clutter of his desk, aimlessly poking around the internet, he decides that there should be at least some kind of flapping sound. Like the menacing jolly roger in Errol Flynn's Captain Blood. McGee is banging away at his keyboard in such an excited rush that Ziva accuses him of plotting a character death for his next book. Tony is expected, if her raised eyebrow is any indication, to back up her threat of disembowelment or at least offer up a relevant movie reference. 'Misery' comes to mind but he can't seem to push his voice through his clenched teeth.

It's been twenty years since his last confession.

And there will be none today because those little booths feel like coffins and why rush that sensation. Ziva would be the sort of priest who slaps the repentant soul, though normally he'd enjoy that. Unfortunately she's made a church out of a room marked for the opposite sex which is where, in the traditional of the village idiot, Tony goes to get away from her. Driven from the bullpen in a fit of conscience, he intends to drown himself in the cleanest toilet he can find.

Reincarnation is a vindictive bitch.

The notion that he'll be returned to this world as an overworked plunger keeps his head, literally, above water. Gripping the sink, the heaving starts as he fights to trap the partially digested pizza in its cell. The bile and nerves are shoved into a compartment labeled 'problematic fuel for later' and he begins the task of washing his hands. For twenty minutes. The mission hasn't even started and already he's desperate to scrub off the taint.

The miracle is delivered in the continued privacy DiNozzo is granted, as though the general populace has forgone peeing for the benefit of a man who needs a quiet moment to yank out the appropriate character for the return to work. He'll need another one in a few scant hours and the breathing exercises, though initially leading to hyperventilation, soon sort out the jumble in his brain until he can choose the right face for the coming evening.

Oh, he's been that guy before.

Ziva's invitation is only slightly covert. The team gathers around the conference table and beneath the polished surface her fingers trace gliding patterns on his thigh. Hebrew symbols. She'd made a repetitive engraving on Tony's shoulder last night as his head rested contently on her taut stomach. When pressed, she'd drawn it again on his palm as she explained its significance. Fidelity.

Then told him not to panic.

A pair of daunting men had insisted on a different sign of loyalty this morning which will craft a new false relationship as he simultaneously lies about another one. The wood grain on the file-strewn table is weaving before his eyes and he might be sweating a bit despite the cold chill racing through him. Gibbs notices and wraps the meeting. Tony is released from further duty in order to prepare for his scene while the team is informed that the senior agent is under the weather. What he's actually under is commonly known as deep shit.

Of course, Ziva doesn't buy it since she knows firsthand just how fit he'd been earlier in the day. Passing a mirror, he's aware that he looks the part and when she calls, he begins the program by blaming the rushed breakfast. A mental spreadsheet records lies number one through eight in the span of the conversation. The drive to Delaware includes a gasoline purchase on a virgin federal card, settling onto a barstool and waiting for a woman he'll recognize from a dossier. He chomps on peanuts to stifle the temptation to drink himself stupid. No need.

He's already there.

**…………**

The redhead is beautiful and easy, a favorite combination for a man who prefers not to work for it. He's definitely been that guy before. When Tara suggests they continue their ten minute acquaintance, consisting of an offhanded nod and subsequent kissing, in her suite, DiNozzo realizes that he misses the chase. But a wealthy architect doesn't need to run after this sort of woman, though he considers running from her when she offers to chain him. Her body is limber and he mourns the acquisition of this knowledge. The shovel is out and he's digging himself a hole as her nails dig into his shoulder.

The same one Ziva marked Fidelity.

His traitorous equipment betrays his mind and he hates every nerve ending currently boasting that this is so damned good. He's triple wrapped to ward off the curse of defective condoms and he just barely manages to stop Ziva's name from escaping his filthy lips.

There's not enough soap in the universe.

What should have taken days to establish has been accomplished in a few sweaty hours. The brass is notified that the long-hunted data has been secured by way of a James Bond-ish camera pen. At four am a repulsed body leaves its heart at the door and falls into an empty bed.

He hates his character a little less than himself.

**…………**

Two weeks and two hundred scalding showers later, Agent DiNozzo is trapped in a halted elevator with the sense that an interrogation will be the least of her goals. Ziva's jaw is set beneath a ponytail so tight, it qualifies as self-inflicted torture. Standing close enough for him to examine her pores, Ziva slides a hand into strategic position where only a eunuch wouldn't notice and then furrows pretty brows when he flinches. It's a test and whatever confirmation she sought is found. She removes her cupped hand and assigns it a different purpose altogether.

The sting on his cheek lasts hours.

In all the years he's been doing undercover work, Tony has always struggled to keep his alter ego from infringing on real life. Instead of leaving the skins on the playing field, the numerous versions of himself are taken home, given a beer and brought to bed. A bit like sewer stench that no amount of disinfectant can eradicate, much to the detriment of whomever is sharing the air with him. No one else sees it, however, which should earn him an Emmy, Golden Globe and governor's pardon.

Tony can't touch her. Not since the first time he used those fingers to induce a screaming fit from a woman who calls him Tomas and though Ziva has surely noticed, he can offer no explanation for why the Israeli's touch condemns him, why her gaze pins him to the spiked wall of guilt. And tucked into the envelope of lies is the knowledge that he's already lost her because no sane woman would forgive nineteen individual indiscretions within twelve days. His internal tally keeps tabs in order to provide sufficient self-flagellation weapons.

He breaks like dropped china.

Rather than angry words or accusations, Ziva whips out a surprising tool against him. When she loses her grip on the tears, he loses control of his tongue and spills every facet of the mission in a torrent that would make Father McGinney forsake his calling. But not a single detail of his affair. He doesn't have to. She's furious at the men who put him in this position and at Tony for accepting it.

_This is the last time_, Ziva tells him as she strips him down and reclaims all that is hers with the gentleness of a drunken mosh pit. Not in forgiveness, specifically, but as an informational session that includes a pamphlet on how Lorena Bobbit borrowed the technique from the woman presently holding his manhood in a fierce clench. He's so very tired of lying and when he adds the final insult, a confession of love, she neither reciprocates nor believes.

And then the condom rips.


End file.
